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Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman
Age: 72 †
Born: 1819
Born: May 31
Died: 1892
Died: March 26
Editor
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
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Poet
Writer
West Hills
New York
Walter Whitman
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Loose
Even
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Throat
Lull
Grass
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Lectures

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The soul is always beautiful, it appears more or it appears less, it comes or it lags behind, It comes from its embowered garden and looks pleasantly on itself and encloses the world.
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Most works are most beautiful without ornament.
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My call is the call of battle- I nourish active rebellion/ He going with me must go well armed.
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Me imperturbe, standing at ease in nature.
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I speak the password primeval I give the sign of democracy.
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To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle. Every cubic inch of space is a miracle.
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I dreamed in a dream, I saw a city invincible to the attacks of the whole of the rest of the earth I dreamed that was the new City of Friends Nothing was greater there than the quality of robust love—it led the rest It was seen every hour in the actions of the men of that city, And in all their looks and words.
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The mother condemned for a witch and burnt with dry wood, and her children gazing on The hounded slave that flags in the race and leans by the fence, blowing and covered with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, The murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am.
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Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest.
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I sing the body that is electric! I celebrate the Self yet to be unveiled!
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To me the sea is a continual miracle The fishes that swim - the rocks - the motion of the waves - the ships, with men in them, what stranger miracles are there?
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All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it.
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Something there is more immortal even than the stars.
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Simplicity is the glory of expression.
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Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.
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I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name.
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Over all the sky - the sky! Far, far out of reach, studded with eternal stars.
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O amazement of things-even the least particle!
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Long have you timidly waded Holding a plank by the shore, Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, To jump off in the midst of the sea, Rise again, nod to me, shout, And laughingly dash with your hair.
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A man is a great thing upon the earth and through eternity but every jot of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman.
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